Familiar Strangers

Not home

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Back in the hall, Marcel finally appeared with the document Antonio had requested earlier. He stepped up beside him just as the tension in the room hit its peak. Antonio glanced at Marcel, then turned immediately toward the exit where Marissa had stormed off. Not knowing what else to do, Marcel gave Betty a quick bow and hurried after his boss.

Outside, Antonio scanned the area, but Marissa was nowhere in sight. Instead, he ran straight into George. Earlier, when Antonio stepped out to call Marcel, he had spotted Marissa and George talking at the bar with some unfamiliar guy. Now George stood in his path looking ready for a fight.

“You didn’t handle that well,” George said, blocking his way.

Antonio’s frown deepened. “How I handle my business is of no business of yours.”

He brushed past him without slowing, tossing his keys to Marcel. “Drive.”

Inside the car, on the way home, Marcel kept flicking nervous glances at the rear-view mirror. Antonio’s head was leaned back, eyes closed, but Marcel could feel the tension rolling off him.

When the staring got too much, Antonio’s eyes snapped open. “Is there a problem, Marcel?”

“Well… um… Miss Marissa came with you… and it’s hard to get a ride from that area at this time,” Marcel said carefully.

“And? If she had the nerve to cause trouble and couldn’t apologise, she can deal with the consequences,” Antonio replied coldly.

Marcel hesitated. “But… do you really think Miss Marissa did that?”

“If you have something to say, say it. Stop dragging it out,” Antonio snapped.

Marcel swallowed and continued. “When I arrived, I saw a crowd around Miss Marissa and Miss Betty, so I went closer. Miss Betty was confronting her, and Miss Marissa was trying to leave. Then Miss Betty followed her with a drink in her hand and… well… it looked like she spilled it on herself. On purpose or not, I don’t know.”

Antonio’s expression shifted.

“And Marissa had no drink in her hand?”

“No sir. None. And I’m sure others saw it too, but… nobody wants to offend Miss Betty over someone they don’t know.”

Antonio let out a slow, heavy sigh. “Circle the block.”

They drove around twice, but found no sign of Marissa. With annoyance tightening his jaw, Antonio finally said, “Drive home.”

He had a feeling George might have taken her as they seemed to have become friends.

After getting home, Antonio walked into a house that suddenly felt too quiet. No Marissa. He headed straight to his room, changed, then marched to her door and knocked. Nothing. He pushed the door open—empty. His jaw tightened as he pulled out his phone and dialed her number. Of course… no answer.

By past 1 a.m., he was still rolling around in bed. Half worried, half annoyed, fully confused. Eventually, sleep dragged him under.

Antonio’s POV

I woke up and instantly remembered yesterday’s drama—and the fact that Marissa didn’t come home. Great. Just great.

I got up, hit the gym for my weekend workout, then went downstairs to the kitchen for water. The place was too quiet. This past week, Marissa had practically claimed this space—always cooking something, humming, smiling, and eating like food was her love language. Now? Silence.

My stomach growled, irritated. I chugged the water and turned to head upstairs when I heard a car approaching. I didn’t need to check who it was, but I still paused midway up the stairs.

Marissa stepped out of the car and walked in. The first thing I noticed was the oversized pullover on her—definitely a man’s. Then George crossed my mind. Did she go home with him yesterday? A weird feeling shot through me. I ignored it… or tried to.

She walked toward the stairs, clearly planning to glide past me like I didn’t exist. She always did that when she was pissed. Not today.

I blocked her path.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

“Can you disappear?” she shot back, trying to slip past me.

Too bad for her—I’m taller, broader, and right at the top of the stairs.

As she keeps trying to slip past me, a faint scent brushes by—definitely not hers.

Something fresh. Masculine.

George.

My jaw ticks.

“Where were you last night?” I ask, voice low.

She freezes. Just a second—but I catch it.

Then she fires back, “What? Since when were my whereabouts your concern?”

My chest tightens—annoyingly—because I did say something similar to George last night.

And now it sounds stupid.

I shake the feeling off, but before I can speak, she adds:

“Move, Grandpa said he’s on his way, so can you respect yourself and get out of the way?”

I blink.

Did she just—?

“Grandpa?” My brows shoot up.

“Yes. Grandpa.” She emphasizes every syllable like she’s scolding a child. “So shift.”

The irritation in her voice mixes with the foreign cologne in the air, and for some reason it grates me more than it should.

“Marissa,” I say, blocking her again, “answer the question.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “And I said move. You don’t own the stairs.”

For a second, it hits me—she’s right. Her whereabouts aren’t my business.

So I drop it and get to the real point.

“Well… I’m sorry about last night,” I say.

From my angle, I spot Grandpa climbing out of his car and heading toward the entrance. Marissa keeps going, completely unaware.

“Sorry?” she repeats, her voice rising. “Sorry about what? Your inability to discern? Your lack of trust? Or maybe just a tiny bit of basic courtesy to ask what actually happened?”

She’s backing toward the door as she talks, hands flying, completely worked up.

And Grandpa is getting closer.

Way too close.

And she’s still talking.

I have no idea whether to cover her mouth, drag her aside, or pray Grandpa suddenly develops hearing loss.